A Million Versions of Right

... sudden sleepy movement. The neighbourhood of unseen... jogged his elbow...

- James Joyce

To the Brothers Gunther, I tip my hat. Jenn shall be thanked for mandatory reasons. Vaughan is to be appreciated like the wind. For those who proofed I give a bucket of my firstborns. And to Brooke who was forced to care, I dribble happy strings of respect

A MILLION VERSIONS OF RIGHT

It was certainly no surprise that what I had once referred to lovingly as ‘the gentle little rub’, had eventually become frenetic masturbation, resulting in my first orgasm.

* * * * *

Under the bed that one lunch time, hiding from my clockwork father, I was excited and disgusted, my pockets chock full of scabs. My hands were adorned in filthy fingernails, all chewed and torn. I laid there under the bed, cribbed among uncomfortable refuse. The sound of approaching footsteps combined with the sight of a looming shadow panged excited nerves throughout me. I jerked quickly, my breathing heavy as I progressed toward the climax. A distinct sense that this feeling couldn’t elevate any higher overcame me. When that point of no return had been reached, it was nothing but intense pain. My toes curled, my lips were bitten into leaking sores, sweat lathered me. That was the first time I ever ejaculated a moustachioed tiler.

The moustachioed tiler climbed down my erect shaft and immediately got to work. Retrieving all the tools he needed from a seemingly infinite back pocket, he began to lay miniscule tiles upon my stomach. It wasn’t long before my entire lower torso had been well and truly tiled.

The tiler extracted a thermos and a sandwich from his pocket, sat down and had a break. With his gruff exertions, sweaty brow and dirty white overalls the tiler was a sight to behold. He chewed upon his tiny sandwich, spitting out chunks he didn’t like.

When my clockwork father finally vacated the house I squirmed my way out from beneath the bed. The tiler appeared angry at the inconvenience these movements caused.

“Sorry,” I whispered, as if atonement was necessary.

He momentarily stopped eating his sandwich and stared hard, right into my eyes. A very awkward silence ensued. I had the distinct impression that I shouldn’t move at all, lest I further irritated this strange little man. I watched as he retrieved a cigarette from his front pocket and started exhaling the filthy smoke into the room. There was little I could do.

So there I laid, pants around my knees. A good half of my body entombed in miniature tiles. If there was one thing to be said it was that this tiler had a remarkable work ethic. If only he would stop tiling for a while and get off my body.

Burning with hunger, I remember desperately wanting to get up. Stomach acid was knocking against my insides like waves to a shore. Each stomach grumble forced barely spoken profanity from the tiler. I figured it best to stay where I was. My penis was pathetically exposed and flaccid. My urethra was still recovering from the enormous stretch of the moustachioed ejaculation.

Hours passed and my clockwork father was due home any minute. My entire body was tiled except for my face and genitals. I assumed this was an attempt by the tiler to maximise the shame and embarrassment I would feel when my father found me in such a peculiar position.

The sound of the car rumbling up the driveway struck me with fear. The tiler cruelly laughed to himself despite the fact the situation was anything but amusing. No, it wasn’t a laugh as much as a verbalised rictus.

My father’s footsteps clopped up the front steps. He unlocked the door and entered the house. He gently closed the door behind and began making his way ever closer toward his son’s sheer embarrassment and shame.

I lay prone, tiled to the hilt. That tiny bastard was eating a sandwich that never seemed to end. An alarming quantity of crumbs had accumulated in his moustache. I could clearly make them out despite their microscopic nature.

The words of my father upon entering my bedroom still ring in my ears to this day. In a screeching falsetto he exerted the words, “Now fuck me if you ain’t all covered up in tiny tiles!”

My father moved closer, eyeing the moustachioed tiler as he ate his sandwich. “One thing you should know, son, is that when faced with a situation such as yours, when you ejaculate something untoward, you should respond in a manner that is at least equally as untoward as the ejaculate.”

In fascination, I stared at my father. Without the slightest hesitation, he picked up the tiler in a pinch of his fingers. The tiler dangled ever so awkwardly in my father’s grip but remained as apathetic as ever. Once my father nabbed the little sandwich right from the tiler’s tight grasp the apathy turned into a miniaturised rage. My father just laughed in a self-assured way as he inserted the tiler into his hefty anus.

“I’m just going to keep him there,” he said to me with a pleasant wink.

He turned around and walked toward the lounge room. Moments later I heard the sound of the television coming to life.

Still laying flat and covered in tiles, I pondered what my father had said. He was undoubtedly right, as the tiler certainly wasn’t a problem anymore. It was as if my father had demonstrated the positive nature of fighting fire with fire. Birthed from the cock but destroyed up the arse. It was an understandable conclusion to his little life. That it was demonstrated with such ease still dazzled me and filled me with an admiration for my father that I’d never previously experienced. My father was somehow a little less clockwork.

I remember the mild sensation of pain as I peeled the tiny tiles from my ravaged body. Each tile cluster stung my skin as if tearing off a bandaid. With the deed finally complete, I stood straight up and examined my naked body in the mirror. I was covered head to toe, excluding face and genitals, in a red, itchy rash.
Tile rash
, I thought to myself,
what a peculiar development.

I lay in bed, covered in itch and absorbed in deep contemplation. Looking back on it now, I feel as if I was robbed of my first orgasmic experience. Where I should have been reflecting on the strange physical sensations that shot through my body, all I could see was the gruff face of the apathetic tiler as he munched on his bloody sandwich. This would eventually affect my sexual in a most profound manner. Suffice to say, during moments of sexual intimacy, the tilers’ face continues to invade my fragile thoughts. It has ruined many a promising night. To this day I call it ‘the flaccidity of the tiler’s curse’.

* * * * *

My first ejaculatory experience may have been my first visit from the moustachioed tiler but it certainly didn’t prove to be the last. As you may imagine, the outcome of my first act of self-love filled me with trepidation. The situation I found myself in was unfortunate. As a pubescent teen, I was in a near constant state of intense arousal which was perpetually at odds with my fear of masturbation. I would go to bed at night and pray to a higher power I didn’t quite believe in, to ward off the potentiality of a wet dream. I may have been able to reject the masturbatory temptation in the waking hours, but I had little control over myself when in a state of sleep. Wags at school would boast of the sticky mess they awoke to on a constant basis. I would have loved to wake in a sticky mess. My concern however, was that I would awake covered head to toe in tiles and tiny breadcrumbs, unable to move.

The pretty young things in my class would invade my dream state regularly and it was only a matter of time before this translated into an unconscious eruption in my lower regions. This eventuality did indeed occur. It had been nearly three agitated years since my first and only orgasm.

That night, in my dreams, the girls pranced about in their short little dresses, winding me up like a toy, willing me to snap like a faulty twig.

The next morning I awoke, and like I did every morning, patted my sleepy chest, feeling for tiles. I breathed a sigh of relief as my chest was still naked as the day I was born. I threw back the blankets ready to start the day, but the sticky, wet sensation in my pants became apparent. I couldn’t quite believe it. By all accounts, it appeared I had successfully orgasmed without the appearance of a tiler. It aroused me instantly and masturbatory thoughts entered my head immediately. Wary of the time however, I had to shelve them.